


i guess that is destiny doing it right

by luminoussbeings



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/F, Plot Driven, Slow Burn, hera-centric (basically im giving her a new backstory sorry dave), kinda i mean you'll see, spans multiple time periods from the clone wars to rebels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-10-20 18:40:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10668510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminoussbeings/pseuds/luminoussbeings
Summary: “One more thing,” Ahsoka says, already halfway up the hatch. “When you get to Coruscant— what do you plan on doing?”“Flying,” Hera grins, and in that moment, with Ahsoka’s smile burned into her heart, she feels like she already is.aka the one where Hera and Ahsoka can't seem to stop crashing into each other's lives





	1. Chapter 1

The daughter of Cham Syndulla is 14 years old.

She crouches behind the grate, peering through the metal slits that divide her from the crowd, from the guerillas, from her father. Her sharp eyes search the platform, but he's lost amid the guards and mob of onlookers.

A harsh male voice –she thinks it is Gobi’s– barks an order for the civilians to clear the platform. When they do not immediately comply, he raises his rifle high and fires a single shot into the air. The crowd dissolves into shouts and commotion and Hera closes her eyes as a cloud of dust drifts through her hiding spot. Grit crunches between her teeth and she spits out a few grains, opening her eyes in time to see the storm of movement settle and her father standing tall at its epicenter.

Hera studies his expression carefully, her fingers curling around the blade in her palm. His face is neutral but stern, fixed in a position designed to intimidate but not aggravate. She knows this expression well. It is the one he wears when commanding the resistance fighters, when meeting with other rebel leaders; whenever he needs to project confidence and sureness. But Hera has been studying her father her entire life, and she knows him better than anyone else on the planet. His lekku are stiff and his chin sets in such a way that she can tell he is nervous.

Hera’s jaw tenses. When her father is nervous, she is nervous.

She grips the dagger tighter, remembering the look on her father’s face as he pressed it into her hands minutes before. He hadn't said a word; he hadn't needed to. Hera had understood perfectly. She would trust no one, save for her father, because trust only weakens defenses, and even friends turn out to be enemy spies. She would die before letting the foreigners control Ryloth, and it would be a death with honor. She would defend her family, her home, her _people_ until her last breath. She is fourteen years old and she knows all this as surely as she knows her own name. _I will not fail you, father,_ is what she hadn't said. She hadn't needed to.

Cham Syndulla looks towards the sky; Hera follows his gaze. The chokehold of Separatist ships ringing the planet is unchanged, but a smaller transport is incoming, smoke sputtering from its left wing. Hera frowns. It doesn't look Separatist, but no one in the occupation’s history has ever broken the blockade.

The ship draws nearer and finally grinds to a halt, showering the platform in sparks. Acrid smoke fills her nose and mouth and she spits again, muffling a cough. Republic symbols emblazon the hull of the ship; Hera supposes it could be a Separatist trap, a ploy to wipe out the Syndulla rebel cell once and for all.

A swift motion of her father's hand and the guards retreat, leaving Syndulla alone to greet the battered ship. He unslings the rifle from his back and keeps it cocked over his shoulder. A moment later, two figures exit the ship. One is a man, dark haired and dressed in dark plated armor, towering over his smaller companion. The other is a Togruta girl, perhaps Hera’s age. Both wear lightsabers swinging from their hips.

Hera stiffens at the sight. _Jedi_. Her hands shake slightly as she grips the dagger. Her father’s warnings about Jedi ring loudly through her mind. They steal and brainwash your children. They rob you of free will, turning your own weapons against you. They are the attack dogs of a corrupt Senate, exacting justice however they see fit on the rest of the galaxy. They cannot be killed.

The taller Jedi holds up his hands. Cham Syndulla does not lower his weapon. “General Skywalker,” he calls, his voice strong. “What business have you on Ryloth?”

_Skywalker_. Hera widens her eyes. Even with her father’s restrictions on off world media, Hera has seen enough holovids to know that name. _Anakin Skywalker._ The one the holos call “The Hero With No Fear.” The one who escaped slavery and destroyed a Trade Federation warship at age nine. The one that even cynical Twi’lek teenagers recognize as the greatest pilot in the galaxy.

It is shameful, it is treasonous, but deep inside, Hera envies that life. She knows that she should desire no more than to live the rest of her life on Ryloth, defending her home side by side with her father. It’s what she's been raised to do. It's what she's been prepared to do since she first held a blaster at age ten. It is her future, inevitable as the morning sun, because Hera would rather die than betray her father. But sometimes, late at night, watching the lights of faraway battles dance in the sky, a small part of Hera wonders why a life of her own should have to be a betrayal in the first place.

“Captain Syndulla,” Skywalker says. Hera wrinkles her nose as his Core world accent flattens the vowels in her name. “My padawan and I come as peaceful emissaries of the Republic. Weapons will not be necessary.” The rifle on the Twi’lek’s shoulder does not budge. Skywalker eyes him for a moment, then shrugs and continues. “We are here to pledge the full support of the Grand Army in your resistance against the Separatists. Troops, supplies, generals– we will provide.”

“And what makes you think we desire your help?” Cham Syndulla replies coolly. “We are managing perfectly well without the intervention of _foreigners,_ thank you very much.”

The Togruta girl makes a small noise of in the back of her throat, her eyes widened in indignation. Skywalker places a warning hand on her shoulder and she quiets.

“You come to our home offering to install _your_ army and _your_ weapons for our protection. But answer me this, General, what assurances have we that the Republic will vacate us _peacefully,_ as you say, when the Separatists are defeated?” When Skywalker does not offer an immediate answer, Syndulla continues, his voice rising. “How are we to guarantee that the Republic will not demand repayment for its assistance? I will not see my home occupied by another army, nor my people enslaved to another decaying institution!” A swell of pride lifts in Hera, one that she knows is shared by every Twi’lek in audience. Her father, unbreakable, unshakeable, strong enough to even stand up to Jedi.

“Captain, with all due respect, politics can be worked out later. Right now, your people _need_ our help,” Skywalker pleads. Behind him, he Togruta girl drifts toward a door, distracted by something. “Right now, _as we speak_ , the Separatist army threatens to overrun your encampment. They won’t show mercy.”

“Nonsense,” Captain Syndulla bristles. “According to intelligence reports, the closest droids are at least several klicks away. Besides, my very best fighters are stationed around us for defense. They will not disappoint me.”

“This is not a matter of disobedience or disappointment!” Skywalker practically yells, seeming not to have noticed that his padawan has disappeared. “The droid army is a threat far greater than your people– _any_ people– are equipped to handle.” Muffled shouting and a metallic echo sound from the passages behind Hera; Skywalker presses on. “With every passing day that you refuse our help, your people grow weaker and weaker. If the blockade is not broken within a few weeks, your entire population will starve.”

The clanking grows louder and Hera pulls herself away from the scene outside, heart racing. It sounds like droids, but it _can't_ be droids, because her father assured them that they were too far away. And her father is never wrong.

Even so, she stands at the ready, brandishing her dagger. Footsteps. Icy fear in her blood. Closer. She keeps her eyes open, ready to bring honor to her family's name. Closer still– almost upon her–then Skywalker’s padawan appears out of a passageway in front of her.

Hera relaxes, but only a fraction. “What are you–?”

“ _Run_!” The girl interrupts, jumping in front of her and igniting her lightsaber just in time to deflect a blaster bolt that would've pierced Hera’s heart. Hera stumbles backwards, lifting her eyes to see a company of blue-shielded destroyer droids right in front of them.

“What are you doing? Go, get out of here, I’ll hold them off!” The girl cries, lightsaber flying as she deflects the blaster fire.

Hera shakes her head. “You can't take them all.”

“I know that! I just need to hang on until my master gets here,” she says, wincing as a stray blast singes the edge of her tunic.

Hera ducks and risks a glance through the grate, where her father and Skywalker are fighting through waves of battle droids pouring from the encampment. “He seems to be otherwise occupied,” she says, throwing herself against the wall to avoid a blast. She allows herself a moment of indecision, her practicality warring against her father’s warnings about foreigners. A moment later a bolt nearly slices off her lekku and self-preservation wins out.  “Distract them!” Hera calls to the Togruta. “I have a plan.”

“Hey! I'm the Jedi here; I should be the one making plans!” The Togruta yells, and the droids turn to the sound of her voice, concentrating their fire on the glow of her saber.

Sticking to the wall, Hera sprints behind them and rolls underneath the shield of one of the units, driving her dagger up through the machinery. Bronze blade glints against durasteel and the droid’s metal body crackles and whirs, arcing with energy. She moves on to the next droid in time to see the shield go down and the Jedi send a blaster bolt straight to its mechanical heart. It shatters to pieces as she rips through the second, repeating the move with the others as the Togruta catches on quickly. When the last droid is a pile of smoking remains, Hera collapses to the ground, chest heaving with exertion.

A shadow falls over her and she raises her dagger again. But it's just the Togruta girl, offering a hand and an impressed look. Hera turns away and pushes herself to her feet, leaving the girl to awkwardly retract her hand.

“Those were some moves,” she says, embarrassment not diminishing the awe in her voice. “I know _knights_ who've fallen to less—where'd you learn to fight like that?”

“My father,” Hera answers, and despite herself, a warm glow of pride blooms in her chest at the other girl’s words.

“Your father… you must be Captain Syndulla’s daughter,” She sticks out a hand. “I’m–”

“Ahsoka!” Skywalker calls, barreling down the hall. “Thank the force you're okay,” he says, crushing his padawan in a hug.

Cham Syndulla follows behind, eyeing the scene of affection with distaste. He places a hand on his daughter’s shoulder, but keeps his eyes fixed on the Jedi. “I am glad to see that you are safe, Hera,” he says, his voice distant. “But _you!_ ” he thunders, pointing an accusing finger at the Jedi general. “You brought this attack upon us. You wanted us to die, to _kill_ the last Syndullas, to give your Republic an unhindered path to invade–”

“Father! _Enough_!” Hera cries, wrenching free from his grip. “The padawan saved my _life_. General Skywalker helped save yours.  They do not want us dead, they are here to protect us, to _help_ us, can't you see?” On some level, Hera knows what she is doing, what she is _breaking_ by speaking against her father, but she is unable to stop the tide of words. “The General was right. We cannot defeat this enemy on our own. If we refuse them, Ryloth will die under the blockade. Please, father, let us at least have the _chance_ of freedom over the guarantee of death in servitude!”

Hera meets her father's eyes. He looks at her not as a daughter, but as an opponent. It makes her spine shake and her palms sweat, but she does not feel regret. She is fourteen years old and has never once spoken against her father. Never once, until today.

Cham Syndulla considers her words. The padawan, Ahsoka, stares at her in awe. General Skywalker waits with baited breath.

Finally, the elder Syndulla sighs. “My daughter speaks the truth. We must accept the aid of the Republic, but you must tell your Senate that after the war Ryloth wishes to become a neutral system. Those are my conditions.”

“Understood,” Skywalker says. “My padawan and I are due back at the Temple, but I’ll instruct the reinforcements to follow your command when they arrive.”

Cham Syndulla nods and bids the Jedi farewell. Hera watches them go, returning Ahsoka’s small smile with ice in her stomach.

She is fourteen years old and she has just disobeyed her father.

She is fourteen years old and she has just lost her father’s trust.

She is fourteen years old and realizes, for the first time, that her father is not infallible. That he makes mistakes. That he is wrong about some things, perhaps many things.

She is only fourteen years old, but suddenly she feels much older.


	2. Chapter 2

The stowaway is seventeen years old.

She shivers in the cargo hold, a dagger clutched to her chest. Her fingers trace the familiar grooves of the hilt, stopping when they reach the carving of her family’s crest. Once this would have brought her comfort. A reminder that wherever she goes, she carries the Syndulla legacy with her.

Now it just makes her sick.

The low rumble of voices floats from the cabin above her. She makes out a pompous, sleazy droning that she assumes belongs to the Senator, followed by the mechanical tones of a protocol droid. There is a third voice, too, much higher and younger, and oddly familiar, but she can’t place who it is.  

“…dreadful insurgents should be put down, if you ask me,” the Senator is saying. “If we keep allowing them to run amok, they’ll do nothing but make messes that _I’ll_ have to clean up. Why, I’ve even heard that they wish for Ryloth to leave the Republic! Leave the _Republic_ —can you _imagine_?”

_Senator Taa will never let us leave the Republic._ Unbidden, her last conversation with her father flashes through her mind. _He would have us stay chained to the festering remains of their government, even as it falls apart before our eyes. If he is not_ silenced _, Ryloth will die with the Republic._  

_Silenced_. A dagger shoved roughly into her hands. _Father. But how will I escape?_

_You will do your duty to your people._

He offered nothing more. She understood.

_You will not fail. You are the only one I trust for this, my daughter._

It was a lie. He hadn’t trusted her in years.

_Be proud. You will bring freedom to your people. They will remember you forever as a hero, the great savior of Ryloth._

Sometimes Hera wonders how much of his rhetoric Cham Syndulla actually believes.

There was a time when _she_ believed. She scoffs at herself, now, with the clarity of hindsight, that naïve little girl who believed her father could win the war with just his rifle and determination. Who would’ve believed him when he pressed the dagger into her hands and told her that assassinating Senator Orn Free Taa would save Ryloth. Who would’ve been proud to sacrifice herself for her father’s convictions.

But that little girl was gone, buried under years of scars and blood and realizations. And Hera was done living someone else’s life.

“I’m sure a compromise can be reached,” the third voice is saying. Hera frowns, still trying to place it. Perhaps it’s a junior senator from the holoreports.

“I doubt those savages even know what compromise means,” sniffs the Senator disdainfully. Hera’s throat burns. As much as she disagrees with her father, in that moment Hera would savor ‘silencing’ Orn Free Taa.

“In my experience, Senator, peaceful solutions can always be found, assuming _both_ parties are open to—.” The voice cuts off.

A muffled thump; perhaps a plate knocked off a table, or a person jumping to their feet.

“Commander Tano? Are you quite alright?”

“I… sense something.”

Hera’s blood freezes. _Jedi_.

“Senator, there’s someone else aboard this ship.”

The world becomes hollow beneath her, the panic in her veins drowning out all her senses.

She is seventeen years old and losing her first and last chance of freedom. She is seventeen years old and about to be tried for a crime she never intended to commit.

Are those footsteps she hears, or the panicked thudding of her own heart?

Vaguely, she stumbles back into a corner, pulling a tarp over her body. Even as she does it, she knows it to be futile. As if anything could hide her from a Jedi. As if anything could save her from the reckoning. Is this the long-promised punishment for defying her father? For betraying her people?

Hera can hear her heart now, the frenzied staccato reverberating through her lekku. Above that, the footsteps grow closer. She closes her eyes.

The tarp is ripped off her.

“ _Hera Syndulla?_ ” A voice asks in disbelief.

Slowly, Hera lifts her head. “ _You?_ ” Memories flash to her mind. A green lightsaber stopping a blast from piercing her heart. A wild laugh amid the crash of droids. A hand outstretched, turned away by a girl whose world was ending.

Ahsoka’s lip trembles. She’s taller, now, with longer lekku and second lightsaber clipped to her waist, but otherwise, she looks exactly the same as the girl who saved Hera’s life three years prior. When she speaks, her voice is unsteady. “Hera, _what_ are you doing here?”

Hera opens her mouth, but before she can speak, Ahsoka spots the dagger still clutched in her hand and makes the inevitable conclusion. Faster than a breath, a lightsaber is at her throat.

Ahsoka’s voice is steadier as proclaims the arrest, but Hera can barely hear her. The only thing she’s aware of is the heat by her throat and the low hum resonating through her bones. She has a crazy urge to jump forward, to stick her neck through the sabers and end it before giving the Republic the satisfaction of locking her up. Her father would approve, she thinks.

Her father. _What am I thinking?_  The world comes back into focus as righteous anger begins to replace her delirious panic. The only reason she was on this ship was to escape her father— there was no way she letting his blasted plan ruin her chance for freedom.

“Ahsoka, _stop_ ,” Hera commands, surprising herself with the strength of her voice. “It’s not what it looks like!”

The lightsaber doesn’t falter, but one of Ahsoka’s eyes twitches. “Really?” She says, her tone casual. “Because right now it looks like the daughter of an extremist guerilla is carrying an extremely large knife and stowing away on the ship of a Republic senator. And to _me_ , that looks like attempted assassination.”

“I know it looks bad, but you _have_ to believe me,” Hera implores, searching Ahsoka’s eyes. “My father _did_ send me to kill Senator Taa. But I was never actually going to do it. My plan was to hide here until you reached Coruscant, then sneak off, start a new life…” She trails off, her voice breaking.

“You expect me to buy that? Don’t insult me, Hera. What possible reason would you have to risk _everything_ to get off Ryloth?”

“Freedom,” Hera says simply. “To live for _me_ , not for anyone else. To make my own rules, my own decisions. To not have to follow the politics and codes of a group I no longer believe in. You’re a Jedi, you would never understand. But if I stay on Ryloth much longer, I’ll suffocate.”

“I understand more than you know,” Ahsoka says quietly. Hera shoots her a questioning look that goes unanswered. “But how do I know you’re telling the truth?” she asks.

Hera calculates for a second, then takes the other girl’s hand. When she isn’t immediately decapitated, she brings it closer and places it over her heart. “Search my eyes, Ahsoka,” she says softly, willing the Jedi to sense her innocence. “Feel my heart.” Ahsoka’s fingers twitch against her chest. “Now tell me,” she murmurs. “Do you think I am lying?”

“No,” Ahsoka whispers, their eyes still locked.

Hera lets her hand drop and reaches for her dagger. Immediately a second lightsaber joins the one still at her throat. Hera calmly tosses the blade to the ground and raises her hands. “Take it,” she says. “As proof.”

Ahsoka looks at her for a long moment, then sheathes her lightsabers and picks up the dagger, turning it over in her hands. Finally, she nods. “Okay,” she says. “Get off as soon as we get to Coruscant. I’ll tell the Senator that what I sensed was just a rodent we picked up on Ryloth.”

Hera chokes back a sob. She is seventeen years old, and for the first time in her life, she is _free_.  Remembering a scene from years ago, she offers the other girl a hand. Ahsoka looks surprised for a moment, then shakes it, her palm warm and sure, her face lighting up into a genuine smile.

“One more thing,” Ahsoka says, already halfway up the hatch. “When you get to Coruscant— what do you plan to do?”

“Fly,” grins Hera, and in that moment, with Ahsoka’s smile burned into her heart, she feels like she already is. 


	3. Chapter 3

INTERLUDE: AHSOKA

* * *

She tosses and turns. She counts from one to a hundred, then back again. She breathes deeply, filling her chest and holding like Master Yoda taught her.

It doesn’t work.

So she gives up, pushing herself up from the bedroll and settling against the wall. Her fingers tap against the floor, beating a soft rhythm onto the cool duracrete. She searches the walls, the room, the shadows splayed over the floor, looking for something, _anything_ to distract her. But it’s no use; her room is devoid of any clutter, her walls a clean barren neutral.

Master Yoda was the one who’d instructed her to keep it like this, back when she was a youngling and had thought it fun to decorate the walls with finger paint from the creche. He’d calmly informed her that if she wanted to become a _real_ Jedi, she’d learn that any distractions would make her lose focus. Ahsoka had nodded, shame burning in her throat, but wanting to scream that she couldn’t concentrate _without_ distractions. Still, she’d believed the master’s words, even as years passed and her ability to focus amid the chaos of war quickly made her one of the Grand Army’s most skilled commanders.

She doesn’t believe him anymore.

Ahsoka rises, opening the drawer in her desk to the one bit of clutter she’d kept through all these years. The dagger gleams in the faint light of Coruscant from her window. She turns it over in her palm, tracing the carvings and crest, vaguely aware that it must be some sort of family heirloom. The concept is foreign to Ahsoka, but sometimes she feels guilty, wonders if she should track down the Twi’lek girl and give it back.

At the same time, she knows she never will; something always keeps her holding on.

She thinks about the girl more often than she should, more often than she’d like to admit. _Hera Syndulla._ Their first meeting; a fourteen-year-old who would’ve died for her father’s ideals; their second; a seventeen-year-old who risked everything to escape him. She marvels at it, sometimes, the bravery the girl must’ve had. To leave everything she knew behind, to start a new life with nothing but the clothes on her back.

In her more cynical moments, Ahsoka decides it’s foolishness, not bravery. For all the principled stands and _ideals_ in the galaxy, only a fool would betray their family. Only a fool would abandon their entire way of life for what could be just a passing whim. After Ahsoka dropped her on Coruscant, the Twi’lek probably realized what a huge mistake she’d made and booked the next flight back to Ryloth. She tells herself to stop romanticizing such thoughtlessness, to heed Master Skywalker’s advice and focus on what’s real, on where she belongs.

And no matter what treasonous thoughts might flit through her mind, hidden in the dark of night, she knows that she belongs _here_ , in the Temple, with her family surrounding her, her life a tidy schedule of following orders and _Yes, Master_. It’s her origins, it’s her future, it’s her _world_.

But try as she might to quash it, a niggling piece of her mind still whispers that her destiny lies elsewhere.

That she needs to wake up.

That she should try being _foolish_ for once in her life.  

And with each passing day, each sleepless night, the whisper grows louder and louder.

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from the song barcelona by ed sheeran. hope you liked this!! there are so few herasoka fics on here it's a goddamn crime.... anyway feel free to talk to me about hera or ahsoka or anything from star wars on my tumblr at [roguejedis!](http://roguejedis.tumblr.com)


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